


Proved You Wrong

by Stuffy (AlexKingOfTheDamned)



Category: All New X-Factor
Genre: Bets & Wagers, M/M, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2513888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKingOfTheDamned/pseuds/Stuffy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remy bets Pietro can't eat 100 cream puffs in 100 seconds. </p><p>Pietro thinks, nah, he totally can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proved You Wrong

 

“There’s _no way_.”

 

“You wanna bet, frog?”

 

“I bet the entire batch’a beignets in the oven right now,” Remy puts his hands on his hips with a sneer and leers down over the white-haired man.

 

Pietro’s skin prickles with excitement. Everyone knows there’s nothing quite like Remy’s home-cooked beignets. He usually has to sneak them, or sprint through the kitchen while Remy’s putting them out on the counter and steal as many as he can get away with carrying before streaking out the other side, dodging flying, exploding knives. To be offered an entire batch, all for himself, is more than enough incentive.

 

As though his pride wasn’t enough beforehand. Honestly he would have done it to rub Remy’s face in it, alone.

 

“100 cream puffs in 100 seconds,” Remy barks a laugh and retrieves the giant plastic bucket from the freezer, dropping it in front of the other man at the table. He cracks open the lid and vanilla-scented mist wafts out into the warm kitchen. “You do it, they yours right when they come out the oven.”

 

It’s not even a challenge honestly. Remy waits for the second hand on the wall to hit the 12, and smacks the table for the go-ahead. He watches the clock hand, he knows Pietro would move too fast to watch anyway.

 

Two and a half minutes is like an eternity to Pietro when he’s going his fastest. But he realizes after scarfing the first ten frozen creampuffs – each larger than a golf ball by about half – that he might have done better if he’d requested to thaw them a little. He already has a brain freeze, and his teeth hurt, but more than just his pride is on the line here!

 

Ten becomes twenty becomes thirty, and his stomach aches. The stomach wasn’t ever meant to be crammed so quickly with frozen, flaky dough and creamy vanilla icing. Remy can’t see Pietro’s hand or head, they’re all just a yellow blur, but he can see his stomach slowly expanding as thirty becomes forty becomes fifty, with forty seconds left to go.

 

Remy’s eyes widen. The asshole might actually do it.

 

Pietro pauses to rub his stomach with a moan, only for a handful of split seconds. He feels chilled to the bone and a little queasy from the cloying sweetness in his mouth. He continues at his previous pace, he doesn’t think about the state of his stomach as he gulps down sixty of the creampuffs. They’ve started to thaw a little bit so they’re going down a little easier as he makes it to seventy.

 

His stomach shoots a cramp through his whole body, so he just picks up the pace. The quicker he gets it done, the quicker he can, well, _be done._

 

Eighty gone, ninety. His stomach has started to pull his yellow hoodie tight. The zipper feels scratchy against his skin, he regrets not wearing a shirt underneath. He groans with fullness and practically swallows the last ten whole, his numb jaw has started to ache so much.

 

Triumphantly, he knocks the bucket to the floor with four seconds left on the clock and pumps a single fist in the air, his other fist pressing against his lips as he releases one long, mighty belch – all the air he swallowed in the past two minutes.

 

Remy lets out a low whistle and gives a slow clap. “I got to admit, I am impressed,” he bows his head to the other man. “The beignets are yours.”

 

Pietro sits back in his seat with a moan and rubs his hands over his stomach. He feels tight and queasy, his cheeks are flushed and if he doesn’t get the taste of vanilla out of his mouth soon he might throw up. He wobbles when he stands and pours himself a glass of milk before dropping back into his seat and downing the glass in a couple seconds. The extra stretch sends a spike of pain through his belly, but he suffers through it with a grunt.

 

Tipping his head back over the edge of the chair, he rubs both his hands down the impressive curve of his belly. When he’d taken the bet, he’d underestimated just how much room those tiny cream puffs can take up. He licks his lips with a sigh as the cramps start to fade and the chill is warmed by his body temperature, and the discomfort is replaced by a heavy, warm, full feeling that he just starts to enjoy when –

 

 

“Beignets ready, foudre,” Remy sing-songs.

 

“Ghh, just leave them on the counter,” Pietro groans without lifting his head, still rubbing his hands over his round belly.

 

“Aha, no can do, sorry. I’ll just have to give them to the others-”

 

“What! I won those fair and square!” Pietro lifts his head.

 

“That you did, ami, but if you recall my exact words, I said _right when they come out the oven._ Not Remy’s fault if you agreed without listening,” Remy grins, holding the tray of steaming beignets with lime-green oven mitts.

 

Pietro’s mouth falls open. His cheeks go red. His eyebrows furrow and he scoffs so loudly Remy flinches a little. “You _planned_ this!”

 

“Indeed I did,” Remy doesn’t hide it for an instant. “Either you eat them right now, or you don’t get them at all.”

 

Pietro’s stomach answers for him with a rumbling, miserable creak. He echoes the noise in the back of his own throat and stares longingly at the warm, fluffy pastries. There’s twenty of them, all in a line, each as big as his fist.

 

“They _jelly-filled_ ,” Remy wiggles the tray slightly from side to side.

 

Pietro’s taste buds win out over his stomach. He groans loudly and sits up straight, pulling his hoodie down so the band at the bottom rests under his belly. “Fine! Alright! Put them down!”

 

Remy grins and sets the tray on the table before sauntering over to the cupboard and smothering the pastries with powdered sugar.

 

“Remy gonna sit and watch,” he informs the other man, twirling a chair out so he can sit on it backwards with his arms over the back rest, facing Pietro. “So I know you ain’t skimpin’ out on me. Someone gotta make you a man of honor.”

 

Pietro scowls at the other man, his lip curling. He wants to bite a remark at him, but he can’t. Remy saw right through his bluff, his not-so-coy plan to start nibbling until Remy left the room, and then he would take a nice long break before chowing down. Now he has to have his cake _and_ eat it.

 

The first couple aren’t a huge struggle. They’re hot and crispy and gooey and creamy, they melt in his mouth and warm him up going down. He moans out loud and closes his eyes and tries to pretend he isn’t being watched. He realizes with a hiccup that he just ate three in the span of about twelve seconds, and his hoodie feels all the tighter for it. He focuses hard this time, forces himself to slow down. His cheeks turn even redder when he hears Remy give a little, humming laugh.

 

Five, six, seven, and eight go down in the next five minutes. His stomach is really cramping now, and Pietro takes a short break to weigh his options.

 

He could eat them all really fast.

PROS: the cramping during would be less intense

CONS: the cramping after would be killer, and he wouldn’t get to savor them

 

He could take his time.

PROS: he’d really get to taste them all, in all their glory

CONS: the cramping would last longer

 

He could take the tray and sprint away and lock himself in his room.

PROS: if successful, he’d get to eat them at his leisure

CONS: at this point, he’s so top-heavy that he’d probably hit a wall and spill them, wasting them all

 

He groans and finishes the tenth with a hard swallow. His stomach has gotten so round that his hoodie feels tight. His hoodie is a _large_. He moans and thinks about pulling the zipper down, but with Remy watching him, he’d prefer the dignity of staying clothed.

 

Eleven, twelve and thirteen he decides to eat as quickly as he can. Which, as it turns out, isn’t too quickly at this point. It takes him almost a full minute, and by the end of it his stomach feels so tight it lurches and he nearly loses everything. He gives a shallow, miserable burp against his fist and shoves the waistband of his sweat pants down farther on his hips.

 

He takes his time with the fourteenth, and finds to his horror that the flavor has started to make him nauseous. Not surprising, given that he’s already eaten thirteen of them on top of 100 cream puffs. He swallows down the sticky, wobbly feeling of sickness and stares down at the tray. Six left.

 

“Givin’ up?” Remy simpers, and reaches out for the tray.

 

“Paws off!” Pietro says defensively and smacks Remy’s hands away.

 

“Just makin’ sure,” Remy relaxes his chin on his folded arms with a wily grin.

 

He has to eat these last six as fast as he possibly can, he realizes. If he gives himself time to taste them, if he gives himself time to feel them going down, he’ll throw up. And then it’ll be more than just his pride destroyed. He has to push himself to eat faster than he has in a very long time.

 

One down in four seconds, that’s probably a new record. He doesn’t give himself time to breathe, the second is gone in five. The third takes six seconds, the fourth takes eight. He feels so full he can’t even breathe. The fifth takes ten seconds and the last one he has to force down, panting and gulping and shaking, in fifteen seconds.

 

He lets out a wail and yanks his zipper down without a care for his pride anymore. His stomach is bulging, rising off his body like a great white beach ball. He’s vibrating so violently he might accidentally phase right through his chair.

 

“Proven me wrong yet again,” Remy grins and lifts the tray off the table to toss it in the sink.

 

“Damn… right I have…” Pietro whimpers. He doesn’t even think it’s worth it anymore at this point. He clutches his stomach desperately with both hands and leans as far back in his chair as he can, tipping his hips upwards so his stomach sits full and hopelessly round directly up in the air. He massages it with the kind of desperation of a man so full he might actually burst.

 

“Let Remy know if you ever wanna make another bet,” the Cajun drawls and leans down to place a single kiss on Pietro’s exposed belly.

 

Walking away, Remy grins when the bucket lid thrown recklessly at him misses him by more than two feet.


End file.
